pond. Flying heavily over from the meadows 

 with folded neck and dangling legs came a little 

 green heron— the "poke." I spun round be- 

 hind a big clump of elder to watch him ; but he 

 saw me, veered, gulped aloud, and pulled off 

 with a rapid stroke up the creek. 



As I turned, my eye fell upon a soft, yellow- 

 ish something in the rose-bushes across the 

 docks. I was slow to believe. ' It was too good 

 to be credited all at once. Within three paddle- 

 lengths of my boat, in a patch of dark that must 

 be a nest, stood my least bittern. 



I sat still for several seconds, tasting the joy of 

 my discovery and anticipating the look into the 

 nest. Then, upon my knees in the bow of the 

 skiff, I pulled up by means of the stout dock- 

 leaves until almost able to touch the bird, when 

 she walked off down a dead stalk to the ground, 

 clucking and growling at me. 



It was n't a nest to boast of ; but she might 

 boast of her eggs, for there was more of eggs than 

 of nest— a great deal more. A few sticks had 

 been laid upon the ends of the bending rose- 

 bushes, and this flimsy, inadequate platform was 

 literally covered by the five dirty-white eggs. 

 [144] 



